Everything Run Along In Creation 'Till I End The Song
by lyricalmadness
Summary: Blaine Anderson understands inbetweenness,understands the act of transit, always shifting and moving. He likes it like that. Enter Kurt Hummel, a student at University of California-Berkeley studying Comparative Literature and Philosophy (minor in theater). Kurt understands the necessity of quiet and how the best music happens in the space between notes.
1. Chapter 1: The Body Electric

**Author's Note:** I wanted to write a story and transplant the boys into a world that I know. I am a poet by trade and I have just applied to MFA programs for Creative writing (and the wait for acceptance calls is killing me slowly), which is the world I know. All the music in this comes from friends of mine or bands that I saw while living in Berkeley. The title of the story comes from an interview given by Anne Waldman on poetics. The places included in this are the places I fell in love with when I was in the bay area. All the poems used are my own writing. All the music featured in this chapter is from Pickwick, an amazing Seattle band (first CD out in March) and Mieka Pauley. The book quoted at the beginning of the chapter is We The Animals by Justin Torres, who I have had the chance to meet and get to know. It is stunningly beautiful, especially if you appreciate the sonic quality of words. It is incredibly sad and painful, though. I will post videos and pictures for each chapter on my tumblr and the link to the page will be in my profile. I suggest you do watch the videos because the musicians that I have chosen to use are spectacularly talented but little known. Plus, it will add to your perception of the story.

* * *

_We wanted more music on the radio; we wanted beats; we wanted rock. We wanted muscles on our skinny arms. _

_We had bird bones, hollow and light, and we wanted more density; more weight._

_We the Animals, _Justin Torres

Right now Blaine Anderson knows nothing. Well, that is not entirely true. He knows this is most likely a bad idea and, by the single arched eyebrow stare that Mike Chang is currently portraying, the others think it is a terrible plan. Blaine knows that he should be spending his free time editing his manuscript - the one that he is supposed to be submitting to the Yale Series of Younger Poets contest by November 15. It has been weeks since he has attempted to read through the sixty cumulative pages that survived his time at the Iowa Writers' Workshop. He knows that he has at least sixty more essays to grade from the composition classes he teaches at San Francisco State University and the Introduction to Creative Writing classes at the University of California - Berkeley Extension. He knows that he probably shouldn't proceed down the center isle of the North Reading Room in the Doe Memorial Library singing an a cappella rendition of a song he wrote last week but his band mates, for a band he probably shouldn't be investing his time to form, are gathering around him waiting, patiently, for his signal to start. But Blaine Anderson also knows the natural acoustics in the airy grand hall, with its vaulted ceilings and stone walls, are phenomenal. So he smiles tight, bounces on the balls of his feet, nods at the five men around him, and allows them to build the rhythm. Notes rise and fall with weaving harmonies and space that expands in the recesses of the room. When Blaine sings, he thinks of nothing except the song. They soft walk down the aisle, voices carrying over the white noise clack of keys, coming to stop in a semi circle somewhere near the middle of the room and, with his head tipped back, body itching electric, he gives in and lets go.

Sometimes, the best part of a song is letting it absorb in the navel, feeling it tug and expand outwards, and getting lost in that intangible connection that makes the song bigger than itself. Slowly, his eyes open, he comes back, centers himself, and chances a glance at the curious people. The younger man sitting directly in front of him, with his knitted brow and red smear of a mouth tipped down, does not look amused. Blaine shrugs, smiles slightly at the boy who has resigned himself to setting his book aside and watches with his arms crossed over his chest, and falls back into the comfort of the rhythm. He forgets about the angry boy sitting in front of him with the scattered mess of books and research articles littering his workspace. He doesn't sing for anyone but himself. The song climbs higher, building tension as it crescendos, words echoing the personal revelation.

He knows these words, feels them behind his eyes, sways to them. "A seizure coming like a rush of blood / the pressure breaks and you start to black out. / Wake up 'cause you're mad at time. / No one else sees a black hole like you do."

When Blaine returns his gaze to the man, he is softer, head resting on an open palm, frown lines gone, eyes, a wide blue, follow his movement. There is something like understanding behind those eyes and it is too much so he skitters away, closed eyed for the rest of the song. It ends in a soft, bluesy refrain. A kind of stillness creeps in comfortably charged with the remnants of a shared experience, before a smattering of applause breaks through. Blaine ducks his head, rubs the warmth from the back of his neck, and meets the boy's gaze once again. Head cocked to the side and resting on the palm of his hand, a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Blaine runs a hand through his hair, wild curls only slightly tame-able on a good day, before shuffling forward and reaching to brush his thumb over the cover of the well worn book on the table.

"This book is gorgeous," he says, retracting his hand and glancing up at the boy, voice loud in the settled space.

The boy shrugs. His fingers trace a similar path over the dark silhouettes on the cover before meeting Blaine's gaze. "It's sad."

"Devastating," Blaine says, "but there is a certain kind of beauty in sadness."

The younger man blinks, owl-eyed, and straightens in his chair.

"Dude," a voice, probably Nick, calls from the other end of the hall. "We need to go."

Slowly, Blaine steps away, a lopsided smile on his face, and leaves.

The orange house is all peeling paint, a drooping gray porch, and narrow hallways. For whatever reason, it inexplicably smells like soup and is perpetually too small when the six of them lived together with their collection of found furniture. The tartan plaid couch (twenty bucks at a garage sale) ate up the majority of the living room and one of the legs on the kitchen table (free) was a good three inches short and had to be propped up with the yellow pages. The heat is sporadic at best and, when it decides to work, comes alive with a screech and a haze of smoke. But it had a basement big enough for the band. Blaine had found the apartment on craigslist (Shared room in an old Victorian house. Located in the Elmwood district. Fifteen minute walk to the Cal campus. Male roommate preferred. $650 per month plus P/G/E and internet (usually $45). Must love music.) and moved in at the end of July. When the taxi eased to a stop, the house was vibrating with noise - all erratic guitar lines and discordant bass. It was beautiful and chaotic. They bonded over a mutual love of Leonard Cohen and Tom Waits. Music pulsed everywhere and songs began to emerge from their fingertips. The next year, Nick and Jeff replaced John and Aaron who up and left for real jobs.

The door sticks when they reach the house, uncomfortably damp and cold from the ever present fall drizzle. With a practiced shoulder shove, Thad wrenches the door open and they tumble into the drafty house.

"I miss it here," Blaine says flopping down onto the lumpy couch, artfully avoiding the exposed spring near the middle.

Trent rolls his eyes slouching down into the bean bag (a little flat but the newest thing in the room). "Is the luxury condo life not comfortable enough for you, princess?"

"Does that make him the princess in the _Princess and the Pea_?" Jeff asks from the top of the stairs.

Blaine groans and flings a random throw pillow at Trent. "I hate you all. I miss this house. It has personality."

"Unlike the pretty man," Nick says under his breath from the overstuffed chair shoved into the far corner.

The room falls quiet save for the sound of the pipes protesting the request for water.

"How is Scott? We haven't seen much of him lately." Mike says ignoring Blaine's glare and flying elbow as he shoves the shorter man's legs off one end of the couch.

"He is good. Just brought in a big client for the firm and is on track to make junior partner soon." Blaine shrugs picking at a loose thread in the couch. "He works a lot, you know, so we don't have much down time, but everything is great."

Thad moves about quietly in the kitchen, most likely boiling water for tea, and Jeff is clomping back down the stairs, guitar in hand as he settles on the floor with his back against the chair. He missed this ease, a natural rhythm they cultivated from too many hours spent in this exact arrangement.

Jeff plucks some random chords on the beat up guitar. "You know there is always a spot for you here, Blainey."

He nods and knows it's a self-evident truth. Thad comes in and hands everyone a cup of mint tea, regardless of whether they actually wanted it. Their conversation is nonlinear, nonsensical in several moments, as it jumps and skitters between the six of them before landing briefly on their gig that night.

Tina is easy to spot in a bright red dress standing on the tiny stage, hands on hips, as she listens to the sound person. At eight-thirty, the Starry Plough Pub is already packed with its usual mix of townies and college students.

"Did you forget to send me the memo on the dress code again?" Tina says, dryly, as she stares at the six men in front of her. "I didn't know plaid could be a uniform."

Jeff steps forward, grinning, and wraps his arm around Tina's shoulders. "You know that we are inbred descendents of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox's love child. Don't criticize our predisposition to wear flannel."

Tina shoves an elbow into his side and shrugs his arm off her shoulders. "You guys are only slightly late, this maybe a new record."

Blaine smiles and shrugs. "One day we could actually be considered responsible adults."

"Blasphemy." Tina says, rolling her eyes. "Lost boys never grow up." She climbs down from the stage, guitar pick necklace swinging as she bends down to tuck her guitar case into the corner. She checks her watch and smirks. "You boys should start setting up. You have half an hour before I go on and, knowing your packing skills, you probably left half the equipment at the orange house."

"Yes, ma'am," Nick says, saluting to her retreating back before heading to the back door.

They set up with what looks to be professional ease. In reality, it is probably the first time that none of the chords were tangled or missing. At one point, they thought they left Thad's drumsticks at the house but found them in Nick's guitar case. The stage is small, raised about three feet off the ground, pushed against the back wall. Mike's keyboard barely fits, angled slightly forward, with just enough room for the lanky man to fit and move a foot in each direction. On the other ledge, Trent's xylophone is precariously balanced in the tight space.

"Dude," Thad says turning to the taller man, "don't take an accidental stage dive. I don't do blood or hospitals."

Trent whacks him on the back of the head. "Don't jinx us, man. If he falls, I probably will, too. "

"Last time we played here no one fell." Jeff says joining everyone in the corner.

"But there is always that possibility." Thad glares as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Blaine raises his hands, placating. "We need beer and no one is going to fall off the stage this time. I am certain."

With that said, he is snaking his way through the thick crowd and randomly placed tables.

The bar is people thick and beer damp when Blaine worms his way up to the front. Both bartenders move in a synchronized dance, pulling heady drafts and sloshing them down in front of the people. Rinse and repeat. Blaine waits, quietly avoiding the flying limbs of various people before Jack, the regular bartender, makes his way over wiping his hands on the towel thrown over his shoulder.

"Its hella crazy in here," Blaine says leaning slightly over the bar.

Jack nods his agreement. "Starting a tab?"

"Of course. How about a Guinness, a Smithwicks, a couple of Newcastles, and a couple of Sierra Nevadas - the pale ale." Blaine squints at the list of beers on tap. "No Stone tonight?"

"We actually sold out last night at the Berkeley Slam, believe it or not." Jack says sliding a beer his way.

Blaine nods. "It's good beer. Can get kind of hoppy, though."

"I like their specialty recipes but they are hard to get." He finishes pouring the last of his order. "Have a great show tonight. You guys always rock."

"Thanks," he says with a smile and turns his back to the bar searching for someone to help him carry the drinks.

Thad bounds towards him, bouncing on his toes slightly as he settles by Blaine's side. "We stole a table in the corner. Tina is about to go on."

Blaine gathers the last three mugs and grins. "Let's get this night started."

Tina's voice is low and sensual as it comes through the sound system. "Hello, you beautiful people. How is the night treating you?" She pauses as the room erupts in shouts and the energy simmers just below surface tension. "I am so glad that I get to play for you tonight. My name is Tina Cohen-Chang and I hope you have an awesome time."

Blaine has always known that Tina was a ballsy artist. She doesn't rely on the proven formula of vocal run after vocal run with the predictable glory note at the end. No, her songs are simple, infused with emotion and smart lyrics. Sometimes, Blaine or one of the guys accompanies her on stage. Usually, it is just her and the guitar lighting up the stage with the kind of power that comes with being alone, being fearless. Right now, her guitar is turned with the back parallel to the ground, her fist setting tempo against the hollow wood.

When she sings, her voice is raspy, full-bodied, and powerful. "I will close my eyes in three, two, one / the guilty hide; the guilty run / I'll make you fly until the day I'm done. / You're a marked man brother, you're a marked man, hey."

His table has fallen quiet, for once, captivated by their friend on stage as the song continues to build, tension cresting in the space between notes. The metronome beat of her fist stills, her voice cracking as the song breaks, and the release, the last lines, are sung a cappella. Thad is the first to react, jumping to his feet, and wolf whistling over the raucous applause.

"You're so sexy, Tina," Jeff says, hands cupped around his mouth to amplify his voice, from Blaine's other side.

Tina speaks again, voice washing over the applause and clatter of the bar. "Thank you so much. The reason I am here tonight is because of those weirdoes in the corner. They are wonderful and are letting me steal this stage for a little bit. Remember, buy a drink, order some food, and tip your bartenders for dong a great job. This one is called 'We're All Gonna Die."

The rhythm is infectious; people are crowding in the tiny open space, bobbing to the beat, not caring when they bounce off each other and Tina sings to them, for them and the night.

The looseness is what Blaine likes best about alcohol. His limbs float, unencumbered but the normal perception of gravity, slightly sloppy but nobody cares. There is a lovely collection of glasses at the table, which has been abandoned by everyone save for Mike. If he squints, he can make out Jeff's blonde hair bobbing in the masses but he has given up on keeping track of everyone - they will regroup before they go on stage. For now, he watches in a slow haze.

Mike leans towards him, shoving his shoulder a little to get his attention, and nodding at the lone man sitting at the far corner table. "Isn't that the guy you were staring at earlier today?"

"Hmm," Blaine says, squinting, "he was reading Justin's book and Foucault. I applaud anyone who reads Foucault."

Mike rolls his eyes. "Maybe you should go talk to him. You could have social theorists in common."

"You are right, my friend." Blaine pushes himself out of his seat. "No one should be alone on a night like this."

He has his trajectory through the bar planned. He really does but he gets sucked into the vortex in front of the stage, beer raised above the contact zone as he slams between people. A girl, all square framed glasses and ripped tights, grimaces and mouths an apology as she topples into him hard. These small instances, when he jostles into another person and, for a few seconds, a connection is formed, is what he likes best about nights like this one. So he continues to sway and pulse with the crowed slowing moving forward. When he finally emerges from the masses, sweat is accumulating at the nape of his neck and a giddy high is catching between his ribs. The younger man is staring at him, color high on his cheeks, finger idly tracing the rim of his mostly empty cup, when he slouches into the empty chair.

"Hi," Blaine beams at the man across the table from him.

The man takes a sip of his drink, arches an eyebrow. "Hello."

"So," he starts, resting his chin on his upturned palm. "I think that it is slightly tragic that a person as awesome as you is sitting by himself and I was hoping you would join my friends and me at our table. I am Blaine, by the way."

He leans back in his chair. "Tell me Blaine, do you always hit on guys by asking if they want to join you and your friends?"

"Would it make things better if I told you it worked about 99% of the time?" Blaine says, brow knitting.

"It would but I am not that easy." He smirks.

"What if," he says, leaning across the table, voice dropping low, "I buy you another beer?"

The man tips his head back and laughs bright in the dim slur of words around them. He stretches his hand across the table. "I'm Kurt."

"Kurt," Blaine says, enjoying the way the closed syllable of his name is crisp off his tongue, "who reads Justin Torres and Foucault. It is wonderful to meet you."

"Queer lit," Kurt shrugs, "although I did enjoy both books. Now, Blaine, do you make it a habit to break into library reading rooms and disrupt students?"

Blaine steeples his fingers together, nods slowly, "that is my only real talent."

Kurt stares at him a grin stealing over his features. "Singing?"

"Nope." He stands, holding his hand out to pull Kurt out of his seat. "Disrupting, of course."

This time, he takes the direct path back to the table.

If anyone is surprised that Blaine brought a stray back to the table, no one says anything. Mike and Thad are arguing about the state if music in the bay area - an argument that has been set on repeat throughout the three years Blaine has known them - and whether or not San Francisco should be considered part of the Pacific Northwest sound along with Seattle, Portland, and the smaller towns that have shaped the indie music scene. Blaine has always thought the conversation was a bit on the pretentious side. Music is music. He doesn't care where it comes from or who it is performed by as long as he can connect to it. Kurt is quiet by his side as he watches the back and forth between the two dark haired men.

Kurt leans slightly into him. "Are they always this enthusiastic?"

"It's kind of like watching a tennis match." Blaine nods as Thad slams his beer down onto the table. "When I first moved in with them, I thought they hated each other. They just like insulting each other."

Trent meanders back to the table, trains his eyes on the bickering men. "Who is winning this time? Are we going to have to initiate a time out again?"

"Mike told Thad that he sucked at life," Kurt says before Blaine had a chance to evaluate and decide on the leading argument. "I don't know where that sits on severity of insults but it was said pretty early on if that counts for anything."

Trent shrugs and turns away from his friends. "That sounds about right. Hey! You are the library guy, aren't you?"

"There were quite a few guys in that library." Kurt smirks over his beer glass.

"No," Trent shakes his head. "You were the one Blaine was staring at the whole time. He was absolutely smitten."

"Kurt," Blaine says, dryly, as warmth creeps slowly up the back of his neck, "meet Trent. He thinks he is hilarious and, if he wasn't a decent percussionist, I would disown him."

"Using you for your talents, I see." Kurt says, arching an eyebrow.

He shrugs. "I am used to it."

Blaine, laughing, clinks their glasses together before downing the rest of his drink and heading back to the bar.

Jeff shimmies back to the table, hips swaying to the beat, shoulders shaking in a counter-rhythm. He plops down onto the chair, breathing heavy, face flushed, and laughing. Nick slides into the last empty chair, quietly, a dark counterpoint to the loose-limbed energy of the blonde. There is a kind of tension in Nick's face, carried around his eyes and in the drumdrumdrum of his fingers, which Blaine is not used to seeing in the younger boy. Smiling slightly, he meets Blaine's gaze, holds it for a few long seconds, and rolls his eyes before turning back to the blonde man staring unabashedly at Kurt.

"Ooh Blainers, you found a stray." Jeff says, staring at the younger man. "I think he maybe prettier than the pretty man, Blaine."

"Just to clarify," Kurt says, ignoring the bass player to address the group, "I am not a pitiful loner that Blaine rescued. I am actually Tina's roommate, thank you very much."

Mike snaps his fingers. "I knew that I knew you from somewhere, man. I think we met in passing at your apartment a couple of weeks ago."

Jeff grins. "You have more spunk than the pretty man, too. I approve, sir."

"Why, thank you," Kurt says turning his attention back to the blonde, "but who is this pretty man?"

"Scott is a robot." Jeff, wide-eyed, mock whispers across the table.

Someone's hand slams down on the table, loud against the jumbled background noise. Blaine ducks his head, breathes deeply. He can feel Kurt's stare, the perplexed furrow of his brow hot on the back of his neck.

"God damnit, Jeff," Nick says, voice low and rough, as he stares at the blonde. "Do you ever stop pushing?"

Jeff jerks around, mouth gaping, before his face collapses tight. "This is not about you, Nick."

"Hey," Blaine has a hand on Nick's bicep, feels it clench and release under his fingertips, "it's alright. Jeff's just joking."

Nick nods, eyes never leaving the blonde man. "He is always just kidding, isn't he?" He pushes away from the table, shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. "I need another drink. Anyone want anything?"

The table remains silent; Nick shrugs, and stalks away. His gaze remains trained on Nick's retreating back until the crowd swallows him whole.

"What just happened?" Kurt breaks the silence

He glances quickly at the younger man next to him before turning back to Jeff. "My friends have very loud opinions about my boyfriend. We are not usually this emotional. I promise."

Jeff leaves, mumbling an apology under his breath, which is mostly lost in the swelling noise. On stage, Tina is singing about all the same mistakes.

She sends them on stage with a kiss on their cheeks and they go, quietly, checking equipment and sound levels. Aaron, the sound tech, is efficient and the crowd is too drunk to notice the silence steamrolling the group flat. Blaine slings his guitar over his shoulder, already hot under the stage lights. A bead of sweat rolls between his shoulder blades and he turns his back to the crowd, eyeing the ragged fragments of his band. Mike shrugs, his lanky body contorted behind the keyboard. He stands in the middle, a barrier between the bassist and lead guitarist, and the tension radiating off of them makes him sick. Nick catches his eye, a slight, tired smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, and nods.

Blaine turns, slides the guitar around until it is resting flat on his back, and steps up to the microphone. "Hello out there. You guys look incredibly sexy tonight. Let's hear it one more time for the mystifying Tina Cohen-Chang." He pauses as the crowd surges forward, loud and intoxicated. "We are Crossing Nation and we are ridiculously glad that we are here at The Starry Plough with all of you tonight. How many of you out there are Cal students?" Blaine waits for the rising cheer to die down before continuing. "Today, we invaded the North Reading Room in the Doe Library and taped an a cappella arrangement of one of our songs. Thankfully, we didn't get chased out by security. It should be up on Facebook and Youtube by Saturday so look for it, share it with your friends, and help us get the word out because we love making music for you guys. Enough of this talking shit. Let's get our dance on. I want to see everyone out there shaking your asses out here in front of me. This is called 'Up All Night.'"

Blaine sinks into the swinging beat, body buzzing uncontrolled. Most of the crowd is lost behind the wall of too much light and too much noise and that is how he likes it. Sometime, during the first set when nothing matters except for the merging of sound and the loose limbs of his body, Kurt slips through the door. He doesn't notice. Later, in the short break between sets, under the puckered irritation scrawled on Tina's face, he will ask for Kurt's number.

The morning is new, a damp dove gray, when he finally opens the door to his apartment and pads soft across the living room. He hesitates at the doorway to their bedroom. The blonde man sleeping is all angles and planes, softened young by the elongated shadows slashing over any exposed skin. The first time Blaine stayed at the apartment, he didn't sleep; instead, he traced the geography of Scott's body, feather light, until he knew the exact slope of his cheekbones, the contours of his sleep slack mouth, and how the notches of his spine rose and fell underneath his fingertips. This man is familiar now and he can find every ridge and dip in the long length of his body with ease. He can set his pulse by the steadiness of his breath. It's familiar, easy, now. Blaine strips, stale clothes thrown haphazardly near the vicinity of the laundry basket, climbs under the slate sheets, and curls into his side. The older man shifts, hums low under his breath, and pulls him closer.

"It's late, baby," Blaine says, lips brushing the turn of Scott's jaw, "go back to sleep."

Scott burrows closer, breath ghosting over Blaine's ear. "You reek of beer."

"I'm sorry." He slips his hand under the worn, gray undershirt.

"I wish you would stop." He exhales turning onto his side.

Blaine turns with him, pressing his forehead in the space between shoulder blades. "I know."

Kurt does not meet him at Café Milano. Blaine arrives early and waits, papers on line breaks and syntactical manipulation in contemporary poetics spread out in front of him. His phone remains silent, a paper weight on the Manila folder slashing across one corner of the little table. Cold coffee sits stagnant and thick in the bottom of the delicate glass cup and he hasn't done much more than skim the first essay. Instead, he is hunched over the little notebook, fingers stained with blue ink, and he is writing. It started with a line, a single clausal statement, which became a full sentence, a question that created a landslide: _What does a bee look like naked / down to its bones? _The next lines are choppy, unexpected muscles being asked to stretch beyond set limits and hold the position. It hurts as the poem builds stacking hypothetical questions on top of each other without answers because he has none. _Is there room, a hollowed nave between / pinstripe bones to build a bed some / bookcases?_ He sees it now, Scott's loft with its high ceilings, the cool greys and blacks emphasizing the minimalistic furniture, and how the worn spines of his books looked haggard against the newness of everything. _I moved in with some things / a pile of clothes and art prints I hung / on vertebrae__.__ I made my home in the navel of the bee / surrounded by sun dried skin, singed fibers. _The poem doesn't provide him answers nor does he write to find answers. It breathes and becomes him at this moment and that is all writing is supposed to do. He finishes the poem (_Is the bee still a bee when the bones/ break? __Do I still have a home when the bones / turn to dust?) _as the coffee shop is closing and he quietly gathers his stuff, jostles it into his messenger bag, and heads back to his house.


	2. Chapter 2: Strange Like We Are

**Author's Note: So I don't know if many of you are interested in this story but I thought that I would post chapter 2, regardless. The songs featured in this installement are Dusty Low's acoustic cover of "I'm Alright," by Kenny Loggins and "Strange Like We Are," by Campfire OK. All the poems featured are mine. If you are interested in links to the songs, pictures of places used, and/or my poems, please let me know. Thank you for reading and I would really love if you would let me know what you think of my little story, even if you absolutely detest it.**

* * *

_Well, you need beauty to go with the truth part, _

_or hand in hand or hand over head or head_

_over heels in love with him._

_Coup de Grace, _Anne Waldman

* * *

When Blaine writes, he can taste the words as they form on his tongue and roll into the moleskin notebook where he always jots the beginnings. On good days, it is a good Merlot mixed with dark chocolate and a hint of cinnamon. Those days, when the words do not constrict in his chest cavity and the pages are not littered with the deep indentations of scribbled mistakes, are rare. After he graduated from the workshop, they were saline purging from the body, cathartic and relentless, wrinkling pages with frenetic energy. Lately, the words are acidic, vinegar and bile cramping in his stomach before leaving his body in choppy syntactical chunks, disconnected and dissonant. Those words are residue that lingers near his molars or the beads of sweat that clings sour at his hairline with other displaced thoughts. When he was younger, a student at Ohio State studying contemporary literature and business, poetry represented control, a closed fist of words that can become larger than the page. He fell in love with words at the syllabic level and how letters bounce off and crash into each other to create microscopic music. Now, line breaks, enjambment, hard stops, and syntactical manipulation is stifling with its complications and demanding need to be heavy.

Blaine spends the weekend, phone off, music blaring, handwriting each line over and over until some variation of the piece is scrawled through half of a spiral notebook. When he stops writing, it still itches under his skin, a rash and burn that aches bright in his joints. He finishes late Sunday night, emails the copy that actually made it onto his computer to Wes, his reader, and sits, empty, on the couch while Scott buzzes around the kitchen. His eyes are scratchy dry, shoulders ache tense, and limbs heavy with the lack of use.

A hand tangles in his hair. Lips press against his temple as the couch dips with additional weight. "I haven't seen you write like this in awhile. Tired, baby?"

Blaine hums a low groan, cracks his eyes, and nods into the space where Scott's neck meets his shoulder.

"Will you let me read it?" He strokes his hand down Blaine's side, a steady rhythm, warm and comfortable.

He sinks further into the couch, curling closer into Scott's side. "You hate poetry."

"I do not hate poetry." He pulls back far enough to dislodge Blaine's head from his shoulder.

Blaine blinks up at him. Head lulling on the back of the couch. "On our first date, if I do remember correctly, you said all poets were pretentious and self-absorbed."

"But I like you." He grins.

"Yeah, yeah. You can wait and hear it on Saturday." He pushes off the couch stretching his arms over his head. "I need left over Thai and sleep."

Scott follows him into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around Blaine's waist as he scavenges through the mostly empty refrigerator.

"I have a good feeling about this, Blaine," he says, lips brushing against the back of Blaine's neck.

Blaine sags against his solid heat as his food spins around in the microwave.

His voice is muffled in the confines of fabric and skin. "You are finally making it, baby."

Hands crawl under his shirt, stroking praise into his skin, but his chest feels too tight, combustible under the heat of wandering hands. He nods.

The invitation to read during Litquake came in Mid-August, lost and forgotten amongst the wreckage that is the first weeks of a new school year. Scott is the one that finds it tucked between miscellaneous bills, stained with what looks like coffee, a day before the acceptance deadline. That night, Scott takes him to Zut! followed by Vino, a wine bar with a patio that looks out onto the Fourth Street promenade, to celebrate. Everything is thick, hazy with warmth and the cloying sweetness of bougainvillea and Lavender. He is dizzy, pressed close to Scott's side, drunk off of Cabernet Sauvignon.

"Maybe this is a sign that you should concentrate on getting your career together and stop playing so many shows with your friends." Scott swirls the remainder of the wine in his glass.

"Scott," Blaine shifts away from the older man, "I don't want to talk about this right now."

"You are almost twenty-eight, Blaine. You need to start thinking about these things." He swallows the last of his wine.

"Not now." He crosses his arms over his chest, jaw clenching tight. "I'm done. Can we just go home?"

Scott flags the waiter down. "I have an early meeting tomorrow, anyways."

Later, when the night is grayer than dark, Scott will apologize, lips pressed to his temple and Blaine will forgive him.

During the week leading up to his reading, Blaine teaches his poetry classes about the history of oration, Maria Sabina, a Mazatec Shamaness from the late 1800s (died 1985) known for her chants, and her impact on the Beat Poets, the social and political importance of the City Lights readings in San Francisco that hosted the likes of Allen Ginsberg, Robert Duncan, Robin Blaser, amongst others as well as the Poetry Project at St. Mark's in New York, which saw he likes of the New York School Poets (John Ashbury, Frank O'Hara, Barbara Guest, Kenneth Koch, et cetera), and the fight against censorship. He assigns his composition classes an essay on protest and sociopolitical reform. Teaching grounds him, gives him something to focus his ragged thoughts on. When he was an undergrad, and then in his MFA years, he never thought he would love teaching as much as he does. Saturday comes in a slow drag and he spends the day alone, stretched tight, jittery in his apartment, the blinds drawn shut and Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, and Leonard Cohen set on repeat. He dresses in black – a black suit coat over a black button up with the top two buttons undone and fitted black trousers – and slicks his hair neat against his scalp. It gives him control, this meticulous attention to detail, makes him feel prepared as he leaves his apartment, leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder and heads up University to catch the F bus at San Pedro. He sits near the front of the bus next to an old lady knitting a fuzzy blue scarf moving easily with the shutters of the bus. Scott is leaning against the bus stop, ray bans settled on his nose, and slate gray suit pressed and wrinkle free, even after sitting through meetings all day. He straightens as Blaine descends the stairs, smile stretching wide across his angular face.

"You look gorgeous," he says as he wraps an arm around Blaine's waist and presses a kiss to his temple. "Ready to get some food? I'm starving."

Blaine nods and lets Scott direct him down the sidewalk and into the dim interior of Bec's (once, Beckett's) with its sleek modernism and dim lighting.

"I have had the pleasure working with our next reader at the UC Berkeley Summer Creative Writing Program where he taught the Poetry Workshop." Ryan Sloane, blonde and prep-school handsome, starts from behind the podium. "He attended Ohio State University where he majored in Business and Literature. He earned his MFA in Creative Writing from the Writer's Workshops at The University of Iowa where he was one of six awarded the Truman Capote Literary Trust fellowship. Currently, he teaches Introduction to Creative Writing and a Poetry Intensive at the UC Berkeley Extension and Composition at San Francisco State University. His work as appeared in several literary journals including: _The Crab Apple Review_, _Glimmer Train_, _Granta_, _Lana Turner_, _n+1_, and _Zyzzyva_ as well as the _New York Times_. Camille Dungey, in an article for the Rumpus, described his work as 'literary and messy, discursive and lyrical. It is risky, large, and hugely compassionate.'" Ryan pauses, folds the official bio in half and pockets it. "Now that the official introduction is done, let me tell you a little bit about the real Blaine Anderson. On the weekends, he likes to pretend to be a rock star, complete with huge hair and the ability to shake a tambourine. He takes Berkeley Time to heart and is on record saying that showing up on time is abominable. Secretly, he thinks he is six feet tall and he will ignore anyone who suggests otherwise. When he was a kid, he wanted to be a pedestrian or a train depending on the day. His ability to get lost, with or without a functioning GPS, overshadows all of his other talents. If needed for blackmailing, there are pictures of him in leather pants and a pink, feather boa." Ryan pauses as laughter swells and refocuses his attention on Blaine's table. "In all seriousness, there are not enough words to describe how incredible Blaine Anderson is as a poet and, more importantly, as a person. I am lucky to be able to call him a colleague and a friend. Please, in his first Litquake appearance, lift your pints and welcome Mr. Blaine Anderson."

The sold-out crowd erupts into catcalls, wild applause, as Blaine slugs down the dregs of his Guinness and weaves through the randomly dispersed tables, rubber band bound manuscript tucked safely under his arm. At the stage, Ryan claps him on the back before taking his place at the bar.

"Ryan," he starts as he adjust the microphone down to his height, "you should know, as of yesterday, I have surpassed you on the number of hot chile peppers received on , thank you very much." Ryan barks a laugh raising his glass in a mock salute. Blaine turns back to the crowd, smiling as they settle. "I am not going to confirm nor deny the actuality of those so called facts Ryan so willingly described. Firstly, I need to thank the Litquake Foundation and Board for inviting me to read during this spectacular event. The Bay Area has such an amazing literary community and I feel blessed to have been absorbed into its rich history. It is also incredibly humbling to be reading with all of the amazing writers here tonight - both Cal students and faculty, alike - so, thank you, for sharing this stage with me." He flips through his manuscript, quickly shuffling the familiar papers until he lands on his starting point. "For those people who have been asking about my book, it really is coming. I promise." A chuckle ripples through the crowd. "The first poem I'm going to read is a formed poem, a sestina, which consists of six, six line stanzas and a three line envoi where the end word of each line in the first stanza is repeated throughout the other stanzas in a set pattern. In this instance, the repeating words are tattered, white, ceiling, exposed, loud, and leave. I wrote this as a kind of elegy for a person I knew in high school. He took his own life when I was a freshman in college. Instead of leaving a suicide note, he mailed those close to him a postcard and one of his favorite books. The postcard was the first time I heard from him since my freshmen year of high school. Anyways, this is the only poem that survived my undergraduate days. It was also my first published poem." He clears his throat, smoothes a hand down the smudged paper, and glances up at the audience.

"One Step Behind

Here I am - too cold for a tattered

robe, inside cinder blocks, a white

wall. Warmth is pock marked ceilings,

the sunken couch with its exposed

parts, or the Telenovela babbling loud

for lost remotes. I leave,

it's half past noon, and the leaves

shimmy, a crispbrown, on tattered

winter limbs. Graffitied walls swim loud

down sidewalks, prismed pirouettes on white

cement bricks. I maybe drunk, exposed

in skin stretched tight over laughter, a ceiling . . ."

These words are familiar, salty in his mouth. So is the silent appraisal of the crowd. There is no hiding at readings, no way to code the words, or bury yourself in layers of sound and light. He knows how to measure his voice, disguise tremors as natural changes in pitch, even when his hands are shaking too much to hold the papers. He is still behind the podium, crowd black-eyed and polite, and he is so young again, forming words that feel alright on the tip of his tongue. This is why he always starts with this poem. It reduces him to trembling uncontrolled, leaves on fall trees.

". . . It tears, easily. I leave

the book inside. Will died today. It may have been last week. A white

postcard said, "I remember everything." Black ink on flatwhite.

I knew him, once, an angel-headed hipster, exposed

in lamp light, tender bodied and bruised young like the crunch of leaves.

Cars weave and stutterstart in the street. People crowd loud

on sidewalks. I am a step behind when the ceiling

falls in steel nimbus clouds, tattered

white chunks. The book is _Howl, _used spine bent, tattered,

loud with his mind, a camera lens, unbound by ceilings.

His favourite. With hands exposed to sleet, I leave."

When the last line ends, a hard stop, he finds silence stretches between corners, the shuffling of his papers loud in the stillness. At a table near the back of the room, Scott is staring at him, some specialty lager half drunk in front of him, head cocked, nodding absentmindedly at something Wes is saying. He offers Blaine a half smile.

He takes a sip of his water. "The first person to read any of my new pieces is my friend and forced reader, Wes. He is the type of person, who will look me in the eye and say 'Blaine, this is so sentimental that it is making me nauseated,' which is exactly what he said about the last lines in the first draft of this next poem. What came out of the various revisions is the closest thing to a love poem I have ever written. It's called,

There are Dishes in the Sink

You said yes

and I leave

mould in the gutter

with your shirtsleeves and buttons . . . "

By the time he finishes his last piece, his breath isn't catching or reverberating in his chest cavity, fingers are no longer clenching white against the podium edge, and the audience is drunk warm, smiling under the dim halos of light. A wall of sound gathers surrounds him, as he steps down from the spotlight on liquid legs. Ryan is waiting with a cold beer in his hand, eyes crinkling as he smiles full, before pulling him into a brief hug and skipping up the stairs onto the makeshift stage.

"Let's hear it one more time for Blaine Anderson." The crowd springs to life again as Blaine starts back to his tabled. "Our next poet is a student at Cal studying Comparative Literature and Sociology. Her poetry has been published in the University of California - Berkeley Poetry Review, First Ink!ing, * (Asterisk), and Din Magazine. She may look sweet and innocent but her work zings with low simmering anger and the beauty that comes from it. Her words are fierce, uninhibited, sensual, and desperately wonderful. Please welcome to the stage, Ms. Quinn Fabray."

The vines of fingers retreat from his back, around his wrist, those touches clinging and suffocating as the voices speak loud and bright around him, as the lithe blonde woman slips up the stage and takes over the light. Quietly, Blaine weaves his way back to his table, smiling at the few who still reach out to him. He slides into his seat, beer sloshing slightly. Scott's hand finds his thigh, squeezes gently, and Blaine relaxes.

"Oh wow, there are a lot of people here," Quinn starts, breathy with a lilting sweetness. "I would like to thank the board for allowing me to read tonight and to Ryan and T. Geronimo Johnson, for being incredible mentors and for not thinking that I am the weirdest person ever. Lynn Heijinian, who is not here tonight, is also a fundamental figure in my writing and I owe her everything. Also, I owe a lot to Kaya Oakes for making me read things I didn't want to read and not laughing at me for falling in love with those books. Finally, Blaine you are amazing. I first saw you read at East Bay on My Brain during Beast Crawl in June and your work never fails to make me shiver. This poem is called:

I Left Some Things

I made awful geldings

of all your collared polo ponies, and then I

buried myself in the sick of your sweater vests.

I want you to drive me into the still heat of orchards. . . . "

There is sadness, desperation in her writing that makes Blaine ache. He twines his fingers through Scott's, gripes sure, and watches the words fall apart in front of him. He stands for her when she is done, clapping hard. The last couple of prose writers (Daniel Alarcon, a visiting professor at Cal, Ryan, and Geronimo) read various passages from their up-and-coming books, all brimming with an eclectic flare of characters and a lyric, poetic rhythm.

Networking, he hates networking the most, Blaine thinks as he stands, back against the bar, nodding absentmindedly to the random woman, a big donator to Litquake and supporter of the arts, that has attached herself to his side. Like a lot of people, she wants to know how he does it. How do his words fit together? How does he think in those lines? Why does he write? He never knows how to answer those questions. His words are always there, in the back of his mind, jostling about until they spill out. He tells her as much. Tells her about the inbetweenness and the transit of his thoughts.

She stares at him for a few minutes. "A poet's mind is why I will never be a writer. You were wonderful, dear"

She leaves with a tinkling laugh, calling out to the next writer she sees, and he is alone again. Scott disappeared sometime earlier having spotted a familiar face in the crowd. The crowd shifts in its own rhythm, a fluttering pulse shimmying in the dim light. Someone settles in by his side. He sighs, runs a hand down his face, and turns with a smile. Kurt is there braced against the bar, head tipped towards the ceiling.

Blaine swallows hard and turns towards him. "I didn't know you were coming."

"I've known Quinn since high school." He says.

Blaine hums, eyes flittering to the blonde laughing at something Thad said. "She is really good."

He rolls his head towards Blaine. "It's hard for you up there, isn't it?"

"One of the first things you learn in workshop is to divorce yourself from your poem. You are not your poem." Blaine knits his hands together and watches the gentle waves of the crowd. "I was never very good at that."

Kurt reaches over, hand closing around Blaine's wrist. "So you may not be a high symbolist like Wallace Stevens but your work is human and messy and complicated." He blushes, drops Blaine's wrist, "at least from what I have heard. I didn't know you were a writer until tonight."

Blaine stares at him, eyebrows raised.

Kurt straightens, holds a hand out to the older man. "Hi. I am Kurt Hummel, Comparative Literature and Philosophy major with a minor in Theater at the University of California - Berkeley."

Blaine grins and shakes his hand "Should I have gone up to you at the bar and said 'hi, I'm Blaine Anderson, poet extraordinaire, have you heard of me?'"

Kurt shakes his head. "You should come with a disclaimer: Poet, maybe slightly socially awkward, and may accidentally proposition/flirt shamelessly with someone even though I have a pretty boyfriend.' It will save you from a lot of miscommunications."

Blaine winces. "Sorry about that. I really was just trying to be nice and I thought you looked interesting."

"I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. Everything was kind of overwhelming." Kurt shrugs.

"I did get one thing right at the bar." Blaine bumps their shoulders together. "You are an incredibly interesting person."

Kurt blushes, ducks his head, smiling wide. "So what is this about an after party and where the hell is this orange house? I feel like it should be this exclusive club or something."

Blaine laughs loud and long until his eyes water and people turn in his direction.

Slowly people filter out, thinning noticeably as conversations drop off. Kurt leaves first, with Quinn, followed by his other friends. He finds Scott back at their table, Blaine's messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

He smiles as Blaine approaches. "Ready?"

"Did you have any fun tonight?" Blaine runs his hand down Scott's arms, squeezing his hand gently."

"Of course," Scott links their arms together. "I always love hearing you read."

Blaine waits until they are outside, under the neon skin of Shattuck Avenue. "Are you sure you don't want to come to the after party? You haven't been to one in forever."

"Next time, I promise." Scott swings them to a stop in front of the bus stop and straightens the lapels of Blaine's jacket. "You know I love you, right?"

"Yes, of course I do," Blaine says, thumb running over a sharp cheekbone, fingers splayed against his jaw. "Is something wrong?"

His hand covers Blaine's, curls around his fingers, and he presses a kiss to the center of Blaine's palm. "No, everything is fine. Remember, we have brunch with my parents at eleven tomorrow."

Blaine nods, eyes still seeking Scott's gaze. The F bus comes, squeals to a stop, trembling as hydraulics release to open the door. Scott presses a kiss to his cheek and disappears inside. He waits until the bus rounds the corner onto University and turns the opposite direction.

He walks to the orange house, up Bancroft, past the university, turning right onto Telegraph. Head shops melt seamlessly into vintage clothing stores, art galleries, psychics, coffee shops, and a whole slew of little ethnic restaurants. Blaine loves the griminess, the history of the cracked cement, the long mural stretching the length of Amoeba Records on the corner of Haste and Telegraph with its dedication to the power of the people and revolution. There's Moe's Books, four stories of new and used books, which was once a meeting point for the San Francisco Renaissance Poets as well as the Beat Generation. It was Berkeley's answer to Lawrence Ferlinghetti's City Lights in North Beach and, along with City Lights, they fought censorship in the Sixties by continuing to offer banned books. Think is tagged into the side of Peet's Coffee, about six inches and simple white, next to a Tax the Tea Party flier - unassuming, in its reasoning, a kind of quiet protest. Soon, though, the businesses dissolve into residential houses, a little tattered and worn, but sturdy before they grow, change into sprawling estates, aristocratic and slightly out of place. Alone by the corner of the Sacks Coffee Shop, a man is playing Lithium with his holey guitar and desperate voice. _I'm so happy 'cause today I found my friends. They're in my head. _Blaine slows, watches the man in his tattered shoes rock and move to the music, content in the simplistic melody. The man cracks his eyes, Blaine smiles and drops a few crumpled dollars into the empty guitar case, and continues down the elm lined street. His voice follows him slowly melting into the white noise of traffic.

Everything is glitterhumid, a dense fog snapcrackling in the late night glow. There is slowness in nights like this one, where the people are scattered loud, dancing mostly drunk in the empty space of the backyard, and Blaine can melt into his uncomfortable plastic chair and watch. There is laughter and slurred words and red cups and Jeff is plastered to his side. He misses these nights of not caring, of looseness, when the weirdness of the previous week dissipates into the smoke of the fire and Nick is smiling again as he picks out an acoustic version of Kenny Loggins' _I'm Alright. _Thad is there, too, beating a rough rhythm on his cajon as Tina twirls by, pink cheeked and arms raised over head.

"I'm alright / nobody worry 'bout me. / Why you got to gimme a fight? / Can't you just let it be?" Nick growls from across the fire pit, voice floating rough over everyone's heads.

Jeff passes him a half-finished joint, sickly sweet smoke curling into his nose. He breathes in deep, lets the burn resonate within his lungs, and exhales, repeats, before another set of fingers are pinching the stubby length and removing it from his hands. His tongue feels thick, limbs slack, but his body is still buzzing with noise and need. Suddenly, Tina is in front of him, hands tugging persistently at one of his until he lurches onto his feet.

"Dance with me," she leads him to the only empty space in the tiny backyard where other bodies are tangling together in the vain attempt to control limbs.

But there is no need for control as they gyrate out of their bodies, heads thrown back in laughter. And Kurt is there, stealing Tina to tango cheek to cheek, breathless and giddy in the glow of music. The music dies down and they are still swaying with the night stuck in their ribcages, a growing warmth. He wants more noise, more beats, more music. He wants less weight, less skin, less bone. He wants to float but Kurt is slamming into his side, nose pressed cold to Blaine's neck as he giggles, and Tina is pulling them back to the fire, back to his body, back to gravity.

"I have a song to sing," she declares as she collapses next to Mike, "but I need my most beloved roommate to sing with me. This song is dedicated to the gloriousness that is the orange house and its lost boys." She settles Nick's guitar over her lap, strums a few inconsequential chords. "Kurt get your ass over here."

Blaine watches the way Kurt moves, a certain liquid ease that flows under skin and sinew, as he makes his way to his roommates side. He watches the way the younger man's eyes flicker over the group, a little reserved, before he turns towards Tina and settles into the smooth rhythm of the song. He looks younger, vulnerable with the fire throwing light and shadows over his face as he pulsates to the beat. Spine straight, he sits, hands rubbing moisture onto the fabric of his slacks.

"All we see are blue pastels and deep V-necks / so why don't we go somewhere we all know / where everyone we meet is strange like we are," Kurt sings, eyes slitting open as his voice settles rich and vibrant over the little yard. People are swaying with him, soaking up his voice and the simple song that expands within the confines of the night. Tina blends and harmonizes in the empty space between his notes. It is a little ragged, their voices slightly hoarse, words slurring gently, but Blaine feels it wash over him, a soothing balm for the tightness he feels invading behind his eyes. The song winds down, a natural slow fade until there is only silence.

Later, when the night is a green haze of late, Blaine no longer wants to escape his body. He is still even as the world tips and swirls parabolas around him. The fire simmers low, an unconcerned waning. There are only a handful of people left, mostly quiet, sitting in front of the fire or talking in low voices. Tina is strumming Nick's guitar, a mindless picking that rises and falls in smooth waves as she nods at whatever Mike is saying. Blaine shifts, peers into the dark recesses of the yard, and finds Jeff's bright blond head bowed forward. He can make out Nick's dark counterpoint, gesturing, as they close talk. Nick shifts into the half light and Blaine can see the tight line of his mouth, his furrowed brow. He watches the way Jeff's body curves around the darker man in an easy intimacy, so simple that it makes him jerk away and return his gaze to the weak flickers of flame in front of him, hypnotizing in their random manifestations. Eyes half-lidded, he turns towards the man slumped next to him, rumpled and drooping. Head lulling to the side, Kurt blinks up at him, corners of his mouth tipping upward in a soft, fuzzy smile. The world continues to tilt and he slides away.

The morning is burnt orange and lovely when he squints awake, fuzzy and cotton mouthed. There is a spring digging into his back and he is too hot with a dense pressure laying across his chest. He groans, stretches long, as his joints pop and protest against stiffness. The weight shifts with him, curling closer as a hand snakes its way under his shirt. Humming, he slips his eyes closed again, folding into the consuming drowsiness that lingers in a pinch behind his eyelids.

"You smell good," he says, burying his nose in soft locks.

"Hmm, you too," the man, whose voice is not Scott's rich tenor, sighs.

Blaine snaps awake, jerking into a sitting position as the other man tumbles off his chest landing in a heap next to him with a grunt. "Shit." He scrubs a hand down his face, swallows against the nausea. "What time is it?"

The body stirs next to him, sits up slowly. "Are you always this dangerous when you wake up, Anderson?"

He blinks at the younger man, still dressed in his crumple V-Neck and skinny jeans from the night before, smirking through his bleariness. "Fuck. I need to – Where's my phone."

Mike appears in the doorway in low slung sweat pants clutching two steaming cups. "Dude, here." He thrust the coffee into Blaine's hand. "Chill out, it's only a bit after ten and your stuff is on his char."

"Damnitalltohell," Blaine leaps from the pull out, coffee sloshing hot over the top of the mug. "I am so, so late. God, we are meeting his parents for brunch today. Kill me now."

"Blaine," Mike snaps as the other man lunges across the room and scrambles for his shoes. "You reek of pot. Go take a shower. I will get Thad to find you some clothes that will fit."

He pauses long enough to blink at the taller man. "This is why I keep you around."

"Where are you meeting for brunch?" Mike calls as Blaine leaps up the staircase.

"La Note, the French restaurant on Shattuck." Blaine's voice floats down the stairway. "Tell Thad business casual. You are my hero."

Fifteen minutes later, he is tumbling back down the stairs in too long trousers and a sweater a bit big about the shoulders. He slips his shoes back on without socks

"I texted Scott and said you would meet him at the restaurant," Mike says handing Blaine his phone.

He slips it into his back pocket. "I so owe you one, man"

"Don't worry about it but you do need to go." Mike says shooing him forward with his hands.

"Wait," Kurt says as he rounds the corner, a pair of red wayfarers in his hand. "I think you may want these."

"You are amazing." Blaine curls his fingers around Kurt's wrist and squeezes. "Let's get coffee sometime. I will text you."

The door slams behind and Blaine skips down the front steps.


End file.
